


to peer into your own subconscious

by woes



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, author has elected to ignore s3 canonical ending, author is also treating the institute like the sh equivalent of the avengers tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woes/pseuds/woes
Summary: “Dreaming of broken guitars usually means that there are disappointments in your love life,” Clary supplies all too cheerfully. "Ormaybe, you're just lonely."Simon frowns.
Relationships: Simon Lewis/Jace Wayland
Comments: 6
Kudos: 131





	to peer into your own subconscious

Simon dreams of broken fretboards at night.

He wakes up wondering what this could mean, because as far as he’s aware his guitars are all fine. 

(He does a quick search through his room, just to make sure. He can confirm that his guitars are all fine.)

“Dreaming of broken guitars usually means that there are disappointments in your love life,” Clary supplies all too cheerfully when he tells her this over a cup of coffee one day. He frowns. Her source comes from a ‘dream dictionary’ website, of which its credibility Simon is incredibly doubtful of. Like, who made them the expert in decoding dreams? Who are _they_ to say that these symbols are universally recognised and therefore, conclusive of what his dreams could actually be telling him? 

He vents this all to Clary in a flurry of gestures, who listens with the patience of a saint and nods and hums in all the right places. When he’s finished with his tangent, she takes a sip of her coffee, humming against the brim of the cup.

“Are they wrong, though?”

Simon drops his jaw, finger pointing accusingly at her utter betrayal. He makes a little noise before clamping his mouth shut, crossing his arms and shooting her a playful scowl. “You didn’t have to _say_ it,” he grumbles. She only giggles at his expense.

He glares (see: pouts) down at his drink, because as dubious as the website may seem and as much as he doesn’t want to admit to it, it does kind of add up. The entire stretch of his love life has been either a) nonexistent, or b) a complete disaster; ‘disappointments’ barely cuts it.

“But the thing is,” he straightens again, when he’s done directing his indignation at his coffee, “why now? I’ve been over my last breakup for months. Why would I suddenly dream about my quote-unquote ‘disappointments’?”

Clary lets out a thoughtful hum. “Maybe you’re just lonely?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” 

“What? I’m serious.” She playfully flicks his forehead with her finger, grinning at her best friend. “Your subconscious never lies, Simon.”

Simon scoffs and lightly swats her hand away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, taking a sip from his cup. “I’ve got you guys, remember? What’s there to be lonely about?”

  


***

  
He should have learnt by now that his words always come back to bite him in the ass.

The world goes on, as per usual. New York — and the rest of the world, for that matter — remains blissfully unaware and uncaring of the tragedy they’d narrowly avoided. Maybe it’s the way everyone else easily falls back into their usual routine, building back up from the ravages and destruction of the war. Maybe it’s the way everyone else has somewhere to go, some _one_ to go to, but for the first time in months he feels even more out-of-place. 

He finds himself hovering over his friends’ shoulders like an unwanted ghost, haunting them in the Institute as they worked. At least he had Clary by his side in high school, but now…

Simon shakes his head. He’s being silly. 

People have responsibilities to uphold, duties to carry out, institutes to run. He knows this. He just wishes there’s a way for him to fit into everything. He was never meant to be part of this world, having aggressively and unceremoniously shoved himself into it without considering the consequences, and now—

“That’s it,” Jace Wayland’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “I’ve had enough of you being a bummer around me. Come on.”

Simon opens his mouth to protest, but he’s met with a firm grip on his shoulders and spun towards the exit, “Let’s go.”

  


***

  
The thing about Jace Wayland is that Simon doesn’t really _get_ him. He used to. Or, at least, what he _got_ was the preconceived notion he had held for him: tall, blond and gorgeous shoved into the unfortunate package of an asshole. Kylo Ren, if Kylo Ren was more blond and less emo. Captain America, if Captain America had the personality of Hawkeye in the worst Avengers movie.

That was during the period of time that Simon dubs ‘pre-daylighter’. Simon still thinks that Jace is an asshole, albeit more positively now— not in the _god-I-want-to-punch-you-so-bad_ kind of way, but in the oxymoronic _you're-charismatic-and-nice-and-make-me-laugh_ kind of way. He’s not sure when the transition happened. He’d noticed, one day, that they would sometimes hang around each other voluntarily, and not out of the necessity of a mission or political conference. Before he knew it, their initial disdain for each other had simmered down into something that Simon would dare to even call _acquaintanceship_. It’s pretty good progress, in his opinion.

Still, aside from the change in his gauge of Jace’s assholery and this new development in their relationship, Simon realises that he doesn’t really get him at all. Now they’re sitting across from each other at a diner — he had heavily protested the idea of visiting a bar at one in the afternoon — with garlic bread (he’s not even going to mention the sheer irony of that) and a lingering awkwardness between them. Jace bites into the garlic bread like he’d never eaten in his life. Simon stares, bewildered at the sight in front of him. Is this some sort of joke? 

He coughs to break the silence. “So…”

He’s met with a raised eyebrow for his efforts. “So…?”

“Is there a reason why you dragged me out here, or—”

“You were being broody,” Jace points out. “That’s usually Alec’s job.”

“Oh,” he slumps and winces. “Sorry, I never really noticed.” Rather, he didn’t think he was being that obvious about it. He cracks a weak smile, “I guess the whole angsty vampire thing is rubbing off on me, huh?” 

“You’ve been a vampire for months,” he deadpans, “and you’re a _daylighter_. That’s every vampire’s wet dream. Now spit it out. What’s going on?”

Simon stares again. 

Jace stares back, brow rising once more.

Simon sighs and relents. “I’ve just— you know, ever since things went back to normal, or at least relatively normal, I’ve been feeling more and more out of place. Like, what is there even for me to _do_ here? You guys all have your stuff going on, you guys have your acts together, but I’m still… me.” His gaze falls back onto the garlic bread — the dissonance between his current outpouring of vulnerability and the sight of the Pop-Culture Vampire Repellent helps keep the frustration prickling his eyes at bay, just a little. “I guess I just don’t know what to do. I feel so _useless_. Typical me, I guess. Gotta involve myself in everything, you know how it is,” he jokes. It doesn’t come out the way he wants it to, and his gaze drops further down to his lap. 

His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. Dread settles in his stomach as he waits for the inevitable condescension to come from Jace, but... it doesn’t.

Jace doesn’t laugh, doesn’t mention the way Simon’s voice had cracked and suffocated beneath his insecurities rearing their ugly heads. Instead, he reaches out and settles a hand on one shoulder. “Hey,” he says, “look at me.”

Simon slowly lifts his head to meet Jace’s eyes; he blinks, surprised by the ferocity of his gaze— it’s almost _blinding_. “You saved the goddamn world with us, Simon. You don’t have to prove your use to anybody.” Jace gives his shoulder a squeeze before his hand moves to pat his cheek lightly. “Things take time to settle. Try not to worry your pretty head so much.”

Simon nibbles at his bottom lip as he considers his words, managing a nod. Seemingly satisfied, Jace downs the last of his drink and gets up. Simon thinks Jace is about to just leave him here, but he waits by the edge of his seat with his arms crossed and a raised brow, “You coming?”

“Oh—” he scrambles to check for his things before standing, “yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.” 

They leave the diner together. Simon falls right into step with Jace as they head back to the Institute, and he idly wonders when the Shadowhunter had become this nice.

  


***

  


He dreams of bright blue eyes and a tender hand resting against his cheek.

Simon wakes up wondering what this could mean.

“Hey,” he nudges Clary with his elbow, when they’re watching some mindless documentary on Netflix one night. “Is it just me, or is Jace a little bit less of an asshole lately?”

Clary shrugs. “I guess. The war’s over, so...”

Simon hums, not quite satisfied with the reasoning she comes up with. He settles further into the couch regardless, gaze flickering back to the screen. “Yeah. I guess.”

  


***

  
Simon catches Jace more often now.

It starts off small: the brief nod of greeting when they pass by each other, then the shared lunchtimes despite their vastly different diets, and then, out of nowhere—

“I need a sparring buddy,” Jace says when they spot each other in the hallways again. There’s two poles in his hands, and he tosses one over without warning. Simon flails but manages to catch it before it hits the ground, blinking rapidly in confusion. “Come on.”

He heads straight for the training room. Simon follows.

“I hope you haven’t gotten complacent,” he grins, eyes glinting. “Use your abilities, downworlder. Show me what you’ve got.”

  


***

  
He may or may not have severely underestimated how lonely (see: touch-starved) he’d been feeling, because when Jace Wayland pins him to the floor, pole held over his neck and a hand splayed over his chest, he almost wants to let out a _whine_. His need to retain the scraps of his dignity overrides that desire; losing to him again even with his vampire speed is enough humiliation for the day. Simon swallows down the whimper threatening to escape his lips and stares up at Jace, defiant. Jace is panting a little, and for a moment Simon swears his gaze flickered towards his lips.

(Or maybe he’s just imagining things. The dreams are getting to his head.)

“So,” he clears his throat nervously, “are you going to let me get up, or…”

Jace bares his teeth in a grin that’s half-cocky, half-predatory. He leans closer, lips grazing past his cheek, and Simon has the instinctual need to hold his breath. “You’re the one with the vampire strength,” he murmurs, “are you going to let me keep holding you down?”

He doesn’t give Simon a chance to react, instead moving away after the agonisingly long moment of having his palm pressed against Simon’s unbeating heart. 

(He swears this guy is deliberately trying to rile him up, the _asshole_.)

Simon tongue darts out to lick his lips, eyelids fluttering shut in a bid to regain his bearings. “You’re a dick,” he huffs eventually, without any real heat to it. He opens his eyes when he hears Jace’s laugh and scowls up at him playfully. 

“You’re terrible as always,” Jace snarks back, the grin never seeming to leave his features. “But you’ve gotten better,” he adds, extending a hand towards Simon, beckoning him with a tip of his head. Simon reaches forward to grab his hand and tugs himself up with a grunt.

“Come on. Another round.”

  


***

  
Simon dreams of firm hands and wet kisses trailing down his body. He dreams of heat and passion and curves pressed against his own. He dreams of breathy moans, the tickle of someone’s beard grazing his skin, the way their touch wanders farther down, down, down… He dreams of blond hair, blue eyes, Jace, Jace, _Jace_.

He jerks awake, a white-knuckled grip on the sheets of his mattress. The fabric tears, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when the dream replays over and over in his head. Fuck. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, fists curling and uncurling by his side. His hand slips into the waistband of his boxers, eyelids fluttering shut and a heated shame coiling in his body as he fails to chase away the thought of Jace in place of his own fingers.

  


***

  


_Your subconscious never lies, Simon._  


  


***

  
“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Simon tries his best not to flinch when he hears the voice, accusatory yet calm. Reluctantly, he turns on his heels, meeting Jace’s piercing gaze.

“No I haven’t.” Yes he has. “I’ve been busy.” He hasn’t. “Maybe _you’re_ avoiding me.” 

(Way to be unsuspecting, Simon.)

“You’re hiding something,” he says, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m not stupid, Lewis.”

Jace begins to advance towards him. With his every step forward, Simon takes a step back until he feels the hard surface of concrete against his back. Jace frowns. He swallows.

“...At least _talk_ to me,” he stops a distance away, voice quiet, almost pleading; there’s a silent desperation reflected in the blues of his eyes, and if Simon wasn’t panicking about the sudden confrontation he’s certain he’d get lost in them.

Simon wraps his arms around himself. “I just—,” he hesitates, curling in on himself. “I think. I think I really _like_ you, Jace.”

An unreadable expression flits across Jace’s face. He stares at him, unmoving.

He gulps, begins blabbering as Jace starts to advance towards him again, “And it’s— it’s okay if you don’t, I just don’t want to make things _weird_ , because I know you barely even like me, much less in that way—”

“You know,” Jace interrupts him, “for a vampire, you’re incredibly unperceptive.”

“W-What?”

“You’re an _idiot_ , Simon Lewis,” he mutters, gaze softening. Jace fists his hand into Simon’s shirt and hesitates, uncertain, before closing his eyes and dragging him in for a kiss. Simon fumbles, wide-eyed, but his brain soon catches up to him and he kisses back, eyelids fluttering shut. _Oh_.

When he pulls away, Jace’s pupils are blown with desire, lips parting with every soft pant that escapes him. A warmth swells in Simon’s chest, and he hopes he isn’t reading this situation entirely wrong. “Are we— is this—” 

“By the angel,” he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head with fond exasperation, “ _yes_.”

Simon bites down on his lip and breaks into a dopey grin. “Okay,” he says, fingers gently cupping Jace’s cheeks, “okay. I like the sound of that.” And he surges forward to kiss him again.

  


***

  
He drifts off to a peaceful sleep that night. When he wakes to the security of Jace Wayland’s hands around his waist and his warmth pressed against his back, he decides that this is all so much better than the dreams he gets.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is entirely self-indulgent — i had a sudden jimon fixation and not enough content to get my fix. the introductory line is based on my very real, mildly distressing dream. the guitars in my dream were broken. the guitars in my real life were fine. i hate mcu hawkeye with a burning passion. thank you for reading, and take care.


End file.
